With Love From Hell
by Clairavance
Summary: Don't be fooled. NOTHING is what it seems.
1. Introductory and dedication note

**WITH LOVE FROM HELL**

_How far would you go to protect your legacy?_

Dedicated to **NightCompanion**  
One of the best authors in the DMC fandom

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**Warnings: **

**- Vulgar language**

**- ****Graphic content **

**- Post-DMC4 **

**- AU**

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**Inspiration derived from:**

**- _O Death_, **Jen Titus**  
- _Master of the Universe_, **Sick Puppies  
**- _Matrix theme_, **Rage Against the Machine  
**- _Remember the Name_,** Fort Minor  
**-_ Fire Like This_, **Hardknox  
**- _Nobody's Listening_, **Linkin Park  
**-_ War_, **Sick Puppies  
**- _Hero_, **Skillet  
**- _This is War_,** 30 Seconds to Mars  
**- _Broken_, **Amy Lee ft Seether  
**_- E.T_., **Katy Perry ft Kanye West  
**- _Search and Destroy_, **30 Seconds to Mars

* * *

Reading is obligatory.  
Review if you must.  
Alert if you want.  
Favourites will win my heart.  
Thank you all!


	2. Prelude

**Prelude**

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_She was sitting with her back to him. Her long hair hung lose around her shoulders in wild, unkept curls. It lacked the lustre he'd admired when he was younger. It didn't look silky and shiny anymore. It looked coarse, and dull, and-_

_-and dead. _

_Everything else in the dining room was alight, with the bright sunlight pooling across the glossy cherrywood table and onto the black and white rug. She was wearing a pastel blue dress. He tiptoed nearer cautiously. She sat tall and rigid, and gave no sign that she knew he was there. He didn't want to give her reason to turn around. He didn't want to see her face, didn't want her to ruin the image he had of her in his heart, not again._

_He stopped. He didn't have to do this over and over. He didn't have to be here. He resolved to turn around and leave the room._

_"Anthony," she said._

_Everything inside of him froze - his heart, his breath, his blood. He stared at her unmoving back. She never called him that unless she was upset with him. But she was acting strange a lot lately and doing things she didn't normally do. Like dressing in a colour she hated. Like wearing her hair lose. Like staring at him with golden-brown eyes that had no spark behind them. Like calling him Anthony._

_The pressure in the room was mounting. He had to do something, anything to prevent it from reaching its climax because he was afraid of it. Of the cold pressure in the room. Of the person across the room from him. Of her voice._

_"Mother?" he breathed out her name._

_Sheer negation pulsed through him at adrenaline speeds when she turned in her chair and looked at him. Her pallor was ash-gray, her features drawn tight across her sharp cheekbones. It was like looking at a black and white photograph - she had no colour, and her eyes were like pitch black dates staring at him. Just staring. There was no expression to show what she was thinking or feeling; she looked blank and-_

_-and dead._

A loud thud jerked him from the dream, and Anthony recoiled at the sight of his mother standing in the doorway to his bedroom. Her hand was pressed against the panelled door as she steadied it from rebounding off the wall. She was wearing a rose pink dress and an apron, and her hair hung like a waterfall of black ink over one shoulder.

"Anthony, didn't you hear me calling you? Your father is leaving. Be a good child and go say goodbye to him."

Anthony sat up in his bed and stared back at her for a moment, confused. Leaving? Why would his father be leav- Oh, yeah, he had that thing on with Gramps today. He ran a hand through his messy white-blonde hair sleepily, and stretched. He stifled a yawn as he got out of bed and threw a pair of jeans and a shirt on. When he turned, his mother was still standing in the doorway, watching him.

The back of his neck prickled.

"Are you baking something? Why are you wearing an apron?" he asked, darting past her and trying not to run down the stairs. He could hear her following close behind, but she didn't answer him.

He felt a small inkling of relief at the sight of his father standing in the front parlour. He was wearing a black vest and trousers, and was fixing the collar of his long deep blue coat. Anthony's skin crawled as he waited to hear his mother reprieve him for putting it on, as she always used to do.

She didn't like his coat because it made him easy to spot in a crowd. They all knew this was a bad thing only because it would attract Uncle Dante's attention, and since they've moved here two years ago they have managed to avoid him. They knew where his office was, where he liked to hang out, and which routes he preferred to take - it made it easier to steer clear of him.

He was a devil hunter, according to his father. Anthony wondered if Uncle Dante would be able to tell if the woman in their house was a demon impersonating his mother or not. His father didn't seem bothered, but Anthony knew there was something different about her. Something that was off. He couldn't tell what it was, exactly, but his soul was convinced that there's something wrong about her.

"Good morning," Vergil said, glancing up when he heard them descend the stairs.

"Can I come with you?" Anthony blurted out. He didn't want to spend the day alone with his mother. He didn't want to be alone with her at all.

"We've discussed this before, Tony," Vergil sighed heavily. "Your mother doesn't want you spending time with your grandfather unless she's present."

"She hasn't been present for a while, if you ask me," Anthony retorted, and shrugged at the icy glare his father sent him. "Come on, please, Dad? I haven't seen him in ages!"

"He was here a couple of days ago, Anthony," Vergil shook his head helplessly, "Must you be so defiant?"

"Why can't I come with you?" Anthony wailed.

"I must be off if I'm to get there in time," Vergil said, and paused for a moment to look.

Anthony followed his father's gaze to his mother, standing with her arms at her sides and smiling at them.

"Off you go then," she quipped, "and don't be late for dinner! I'm planning something absolutely delicious!"

Anthony and Vergil watched her strut down the hallway toward the kitchen. He turned to his father with pleading eyes. "Don't you see it?"

"Your mother... has a lot on her mind," Vergil said, tightening his gloves before picking his keys off the key rack. "Walk with me."

Anthony followed him outside to the car. "She doesn't touch me anymore either, Dad. I fell out of the old oak yesterday morning and broke my leg. She just stood there watching me. She didn't help me up or anything."

"You broke your leg? Don't be ridiculous. Besides, what were you doing in that tree in the first place?"

"Playing with my friends, what else?" Anthony pulled a face and rolled his eyes. "Dad, take me with you. I don't want to be alone with Mom."

"Why not?"

"I had another dream." Anthony swallowed hard as he watched his father climb into the car and start the engine.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Vergil said and finally looked at him, "but you'll outgrow those. I did, and so did Dante, and so will you. It's normal to have these nightmares, all things considered."

"So you always dreamt that grandma was dead and speaking to you, too?"

Vergil's jaw clenched and he fixed his son with a look. "I'll see you tonight, son."

Anthony stepped back when his father closed the car door. He folded his arms across his chest and sulked at the ground, wondering what excuse he could come up with to stay outdoors for the remainder of the day.

"Be good to your mother," his father said through the window, and Anthony kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk. "I know she's not well. I'll deal with it when I can."

Anthony's shoulders slumped in defeat and he watched broodingly as his father drove off. He finally turned back to the house. His mother was standing at the bay window of the dining room, half obscured by the heavy drapes, staring out at him. There was no expression on her porcelain white face. He felt a trickle of foreboding drip down his neck.

She lifted her hand to beckon him inside. Anthony retreated a slow step, and another, and then he was running down the street in the direction his father had gone. To hell with the consequence, he couldn't stand the idea of being alone with her. It made him feel greasy, and disgusting, like being dunked in frog slime.

He thought of going straight to Uncle Dante's office, but he decided against it when he neared the Red Zone, which is what his mother had dubbed the area where Dante was often seen. Doubt settled in. Maybe his father was right, maybe she was only ill. She hadn't done anything to him to make him this wary of her. It was the dreams to blame. That's all they were, dreams, or nightmares.

Still, he lingered around the central district of the city for the rest of the day. It was only when dusk began to settle that Anthony made his way homeward. His father hadn't returned yet as the vacant parking lot outside suggested. The house was dark when he stepped inside. There were no aromas of dinner being cooked. He could hear his mother's voice somewhere.

Anthony reached out to flick the lightswitch on, and stood as still as stone when the darkness remained. He held his breath, listening. She was upstairs, by the sounds of it. Speaking in a frantic voice. He couldn't hear what she was saying. He flipped the lightswitch a couple more times just to be sure the light wouldn't come on. He ventured toward the staircase carefully, tried the switch there. Nothing.

He slowly made his way upstairs in the dark. Her voice was coming from the end of the hallway. He could barely make out her shadow standing in the light of the moon. She turned to look at him, holding a burning candle in her hand. Her face still looked ashen despite the warm glow from the fire. She was on the phone, he realised, when she adjusted the receiver against her ear.

"We will meet you at Dante's," she was saying in a worried, rushed tone, but her face was a solid mask of indifference. It was eerie - and wrong. "Yes, yes, in the morning, at the crack of dawn. It will be better to leave then. We don't want to look suspicious, running off in the middle of the night, now do we? Of course not. Yes, Anthony and I will be waiting for you there."

She hung up, all the while staring at him. Anthony got images of dead fish eyes in his mind, because fish don't blink. His mother wasn't blinking either.

"There's been a power failure," she said.

"Okay. Is that why we're going to Uncle Dante's?" Anthony asked.

"No. It's time for bed now," she said and cracked a lopsided smile.

"What about dinner?"

"You can have dinner in the morning," she said, ushering him down the hall to his room, the way he'd once seen her shooing a rat from their garden shed.

She wasn't making sense, and he had an icy feeling in his gut about why she wanted him to go to sleep. She stood in the doorway of his room as he crawled under the covers. She didn't even berate him about dirtying the sheets with his day-clothes, or for not brushing his teeth first. She stayed there for a few moments longer, and he stared at her over the bedcovers. He yanked it over his head finally, the way he used to when he was younger and he was afraid of the monsters.

He was afraid now. He was fairly certain that his mother was a monster. When he braved another peek out from beneath the covers, she was gone from his room.

Anthony was weary as he padded to the door, surveyed the quiet hallway, and made his way to the phone. He knew the number to dial, but it felt strange ringing up the numbers. He waited tensely as the phone rang a couple of times.

"Devil may cry," a woman's voice answered.

"Hi...uh... can I speak to Dante, please?" Anthony half-whispered into the receiver, nervously glancing over his shoulder down the hallway.

"He's not available. Can I take a message?"

"Uh...no, I need to talk to him. He knows me. It's really important."

"Alright, do you have the password?"

"The password for what?" Anthony furrowed his brow in confusion. "Look, I know he's there so just let me talk to him."

"Sorry, no password, no deal."

Anthony stared at the phone for a second as the dial tone came up. He heard a noise on the stairs, and without hesitation he hung up the phone and darted back to the safety of his bed. He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, waiting anxiously for the familiar sound of his father's car to pull up outside.

He must have drifted off at some point because he awoke with a hissing sound in his ear. He reflexively jerked away from it, his first disoriented thought that it was a snake. He blinked quickly, forcing his eyes to adjust to the darkness of his room. There was nothing on his pillow, pale blue in the dimness of the moon. There was nothing in his room. It all looked innocent, and he noted that his bedroom door was closed. Anthony leaned his elbows on his knees and let out a tired breath. He rubbed his hands across his face, and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. He glanced toward his window, suddenly, recalling what he'd been doing before he'd fallen asleep.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sent a quick look at his door when the bed creaked beneath him. The carpet was rough and hard under his bare feet, but masked his footsteps as he hurried to his window. His father's car wasn't outside. He still wasn't home. Anthony pursed his lips and looked toward the clock on his bedside table. At that moment, he heard another hiss; louder, and more drawn out this time, and he recognised what it was saying.

_Sssssonny-boy, it'ssss time..._

A warning shrieked through his body and into his head a second before something moved in the shadows under his bed. His reaction was fierce, his body hurling itself back against the wall so hard that it hurt. He was trapped in a moment of terror as the figure crawled out from the shadows, limbs twisted in sickening impossible positions.

"Mom," he choked out, his eyes wide and his body quivering.

The figure of his mother slowly straightened to its feet, and began to levitate, even as its face changed. Black eyes reflecting the malice of hell glared back at him, the skin turning a bruised purple and black, and the scent of sulphur rolling off her was suffocating. She jerkily cocked her head to the side, and a deep, unearthly rumbling seemed to come from her chest.

The fury and absolute hate in the room was oppressive. Anthony could hear his own small, helpless gasps as he tried to breathe through the fear.

"Mommy loves you so much," the figure said mockingly in an unnaturally high pitched voice. "Don't you know that, sonny-boy? Mommy loves you so much that Mommy will do anything to protect you. Don't you know that, sonny-boy?"

Anthony felt something ugly stir inside of him at the words. That was his mother's pet-name for him; the one she'd started using when he'd told her she embarrassed him with her constant hugs and shows of affection in front of his friends. Sonny-boy was her way of saying she loved him. Sonny-boy was their thing. Sonny-boy was_ sacred_.

"Mommy loves you so much that she would sell her soul to keep you safe. Don't you know that, sonny-"

His mother had always told him that he'd inherited his bad temper from his father. A dangerous thing, she'd said. Hell hath no fury when his father was in a foul mood. Now, Anthony felt his own temper boil to the surface. He lunged at the creature with a desperate, infuriated scream without thinking of the consequence.

He lacked the perfect control his father had, and he couldn't harness his anger as well; he was small and weak in comparison to the demon before him. His attack was deflected easily, and he went crashing into the wall with a flick of the figure's wrist. But he was back on his feet a second later, and charged the demon again and again. Despite his attacks causing little to no damage to the demon, he could see that he was wearing on the demon's stamina. Even when its amusement became annoyance, and its shrill, manical laughter fell to death, he continued attacking it. It was the rage inside of him that drove him to act, that blinded him to the serious injuries the demon had been inflicting upon him, and he didn't stop being terrified all the while.

As long as he was breathing, he would fight back. The demon seemed to realise this, too. It was when Anthony managed to break through the weary demon's defences and finally land a good, hard kick in its stomach, the force of it sending the demon several paces back, that things got really messy.

The demon went on the offensive and was ontop of him in a wink. It was unnaturally strong, even in the human body it possessed, and its fingers dug into his skin. It scratched at him like a dog trying to dig up the ground, and all the while it was making a distorted, falsetto purring noise with bursts of angry sounds - he wasn't sure whether it was barking or growling at him.

He couldn't move from underneath its weight, couldn't escape its furious clawing at him, so he did the only thing he was capable of. He teleported and ended up on the floor beside his door. Of course, the demon moved with him because it was physically touching him, and the act itself nearly drained him of energy. But it disoriented the demon, and gave Anthony a few seconds to escape as the creature's confusion subsided. He pushed the unbalanced demon hard enough to give him space to roll away from it, and then he was scrambling for the doorknob in the dark.

The demon let out a feral snarl as it realised what was happening. Anthony felt his heart nearly stop when his bloody hand couldn't get a firm grasp on the doorknob. He teleported away from the demon as it reached for him. Short bursts - then he was next to his bed, then he was at the window - because he had to spare the last of his strength for the big leap to the city. The demon was charging him, faster than he could move, and then they were both crashing through the window and falling.

The ground knocked the breath from him and he tasted blood. He rolled over onto his side, then stumbled to his feet as he headed for the street. A large piece of glass had embedded itself in his side and he yanked it out. Black spray covered his vision for a brief second. He knew if he didn't do it now, the demon would get him for certain. He cast the glass aside, feeling the odd warm and cold sensation of blood pumping from the wound, and focussed the last of his energy on teleporting even as he heard the demon rushing him from behind.


	3. Chapter: Torn

It was far too early to be awake on a sleepy Sunday morning. The stars were still high and bright in the onyx dome of night. Dante sat behind his desk and stared out of the tall windows of his office. He was sure it was a scream that had woken him before. The scream of a woman, or a child...or maybe it'd been both?

Regardless, he couldn't fall back asleep. The scream was still echoing through his memory, stirring a strange jumble of emotion within him. The pain from his past was haloed in a foreboding sensation, like an inaudible siren sent straight from the pits of hell to alert him of something big coming his way. Something evil. Something powerful.

Trish had been feeling the same thing since the night before. She'd answered a call for him, and tactfully turned down the person when they offered no password – and afterward, before she'd left him alone for the night, Trish had taken him aside with turmoil in her eyes.

"I don't think I should have denied that customer our service," she'd said tightly.

"Well if they didn't have the password then it really isn't our problem," Dante had tried to set her at ease. "I told you if the job matters, I'll take it, and if they don't have the password then it isn't a priority."

"It does matter, Dante," Trish had said quietly, and shrugged at him. "It was wrong of me to hang up on him."

Now, hours later, Dante kept watching his antique phone, waiting for the familiar rattle to echo through the silence. The instinctual feeling that his presence was needed somewhere was always associated with a phone call. Unless they were going to come busting through his door or doing somersaults through his window.

The fan above him squealed and whirred its slow rhythm.

The leaves of the potted palms swayed and rubbed against each other in the soft breeze.

A cat yowled in the alley next to his office.

The chair beneath him groaned loudly as he restlessly shifted his booted feet from his desk to the floor.

He leaned back and impatiently rubbed his hands across the rough stubble on his cheeks. He turned to look at the window again, and let out a long-suffering sigh. The air was stifling. Fickle frustration and fear coiled itself around him. Somehow he knew he was too late. For what, or why, Dante wasn't sure. He thought of phoning Trish and asking her more about what the customer had said, but he wasn't certain it would aid him in any way. It had been the only phone call they'd gotten in a week. Dante rolled his shoulders in an attempt to ease his tense muscles. They shouldn't have let this one slip by them.

Something bad had happened – could possibly be happening this very moment – and he was sitting here eating air and counting minutes.

The atmosphere was as suffocating as his thoughts. Dante rose from his chair and headed for the door, his heart beating too fast and too hard against his chest. Fresh air. He just needed to catch his breath and take a moment.

The crisp, light breeze iced his skin and played through his silver hair when he stepped outside. He drew a deep breath and recognised the sharp scent of demon blood immediately. He tracked the smell to the narrow alley beside the building, and scanned the ominous shadows with deliberate accuracy. He expected to find a wounded demon but there was no movement from the dark. He edged deeper into the alley and stopped dead when a sudden gust of fierce wind lifted the tails of his coat. He caught the unmistakable but faint odour of iron a second before a gurgling exhale emanated from between a load of black garbage bags to his right.

Dante stepped closer quickly and stared down at the sight. In his mind he was paralyzed, unable to process what he was seeing, but his body took charge and acted swiftly. He scooped the mutilated figure into his arms like it weighed next to nothing. A thin, jerking arm reached up and a small bloody hand pressed against his cheek as Dante strode back into his office. He looked down at the round face of the child as he gently eased him onto the couch.

"It's okay, kid, look I'll get you help," Dante said in a strange, faint voice.

Angry scarlet blood ruthlessly gushed forth from the deep overlapping slashes that coated the boy from head to torso. It ran down the rich leather of the couch and streamed to the floor below in a waterfall of sickening red. He was going to bleed to death; Dante could see it clear in the pale blue eyes staring through him. There was little life left in those oddly familiar eyes.

Dante's head was spinning – with the thin layers of pink fat and the stark white of shattered bone protruding from the gaping wounds the kid looked like he'd been mauled by a tiger – but it was the sheet white face of the child that made him lightheaded with recognition.

Dante darted across the room for his car keys and was back beside the boy in a second flat. He'd shifted his one arm beneath the blood matted ice blonde head, when the boy weakly grabbed the collar of his coat with shaking fingers.

"Mother..." The boy wheezed out in a voice strained with so much pain it made Dante wince.

"Don't speak, just try to keep still and keep breathing, alright?" Dante said, strength returning to his own voice.

The child tugged at his collar before his hand fell limply back onto his chest. "No...Mother... find her..." There was a drawl in his voice, one Dante couldn't mistake no matter how much denial tried to beat him into submission, and it overwhelmed him. Dante went down on one knee, fighting against the childish notion to curl into a ball and weep.

"If I don't save you now, I won't be able to save you at all," Dante said roughly as something inside of him began to crumble.

"Mom... " The boy broke off on a choke.

Part of Dante's mind was fighting against the moment. Was this a nightmare? It would explain why he was presented the chance to save his mother, or brother; how he'd come to have control of the situation. Why this was even possible. He must have gone overboard with the beer, but then he couldn't remember having anything to drink before bed. It couldn't be real – Vergil wasn't a little kid, and his mother had died over twenty years ago.

Yet the boy before him looked back at him with Vergil's eyes, was pleading with him in Vergil's voice. The hand on his chest moved and Dante recoiled onto his haunches when the boy brought forth an identical amulet to the one Dante wore beneath his own shirt.

"No...no, no..." Dante breathed, cupping his hands over the boy's hand.

"Home... have to find her... Opal Avenue... hurry..." His breathing was becoming erratic and shallow, his voice a raspy hiss.

"If I leave you, you'll die," Dante said, gripping the boy's hand tighter.

There was a slight jerk, and the amulet came lose. The child pushed it into Dante's hands with a final, whispered, "Hurry."

"Just hang on," Dante said fiercely, slipping the amulet into his pocket before sliding his hands beneath the boy and carefully picking him up into his arms. He rose to his feet in one fluent move and managed a step toward the door before the child's body suddenly arched and pulled taut in his arms.

"_No_," Dante choked the word out in the flare of terrifying realisation that it was too late. He cradled the boy against his chest, and his eyes burned when the child drew a breath and went still and limp in his grasp.

Dante held him a moment longer, tight, before laying him out on the couch with great care. He couldn't tear his gaze from the youthful features. He couldn't let the tears stinging his eyes blind him and distract him. Not now, not yet, not when there might still be hope for someone else.

Dante had Ebony and Ivory at his sides and Rebellion at his back in a heartbeat. He spared a second to glance at the kid one last time before he leapt out into the night and took off in his red sports car. He knew where Opal Avenue was – on the other side of town, where the rich folk lived in their five-star luxury homes. He parked at the end of the street and walked in a surreal daze past the heavily gated, manicured green lawns and the silent double story villas.

It wasn't hard to track down his destination. A bloody trail led him to the unlocked door of a villa, and Dante briefly puzzled how the child had managed to cross town and get to his office alive. He slowly shouldered the door open. He dragged his mind away from painful thoughts of Vergil to focus on his present location. The front parlour was dark, the house silent. He took a moment to discern his surroundings and stiffened when he saw movement at the top of the stairs. A shadow was crawling its way down to him, slowly, haltingly.

Dante took out one of his guns and stepped forward, tilting his head to the side as his eyes struggled to distinguish what it was. The shadow stopped suddenly at the loud metal sound of a bullet sliding home, ready to be unloaded.

"_No!"_ The shadow shrieked in a woman's voice, and with a jolt Dante recognised it as the scream that had woken him. "You shouldn't have come... run! _You have to run!_"

The note of terror was as genuine and identical as the one that had been in his mother's voice. Dante crossed the foyer and crouched down before the woman the same instant obscene hisses and growls rocked through the house.

Bullets rained down on the shifting and slithering creatures lurking in the dark, accompanied by the defeated howls of his opponents. A black pit had appeared in the middle of the foyer and spurted out red-hot fire. It was the blistering heat that finally burned away his nightmarish daze and welded him back in the present. Dante took out several more deformed, leaping demons with a few accurately planted bullets. All the while, he hadn't moved an inch from his position. He didn't trust to leave the woman alone for a second. These were all small fries – the leader of the pack was around here somewhere, waiting for Dante to lower his defences.

The fire licked across the floor and up the walls, scorching everything black. There was no way they could get to the door. They had to back up. Even as Dante turned to the woman to tell her to move, he knew it was a trap. They were being forced upstairs, and they had no choice but to play along.

Eyes like honey onyx stared back at him from her flushed, bloody face. She was shaking her head at him, her long raven black hair swaying in the heat of the flames. "You must leave. This isn't your fight!"

Dante gritted his teeth and grabbed her by the arm before practically dragging her behind him. He took the stairs two at a time, and she stumbled to keep up with him. He headed for the window at the end of the broad hallway, shattering the glass with a couple of bullets before pulling the slight woman up beside him.

He gauged the distance from the window to the grass below before looking at her. "We're going to jump. This might hurt."

"Where is he? I sent him to you, Dante," the woman hissed back at him.

Dante hesitated. "The kid?"

The woman's eyes bulged, her face turning even redder. "No, _no_, that's not who I sent..."

Dante readjusted his grip on her arm with a grim scowl that silenced her. He firmly planted one foot on the window sill, and rammed his head painfully into glass. He stepped back, startled, rubbing his head with his free hand and staring at the glass in bewilderment.

"I thought I just cleared the way," Dante grumbled, confused, reaching out to touch the smooth hard surface with his fingertips.

"_No!_" The woman whimpered suddenly, wrenching out of his firm grasp and flattening herself against the wall. "You shouldn't have come alone, Dante."

Dante glanced at her angrily. She looked pathetic and out of her mind in terror – no different than any other human would in these circumstances. He opened his mouth to berate her, but never got a word out.

"Dante."

The voice turned Dante's blood to ice. His temper folded up and collapsed in on itself. He hadn't heard that voice in a very long time but it was one he could never forget or mistake. Dante turned slowly, and held his head high to stare back at the entity across from him.

Fierce blue eyes glared back at him with the emotional detachment of a demon. The man was a near replica of himself – tall, broad shouldered, strongly built, flaxen hair smoothed back to reveal the undeniable features of his father. He was partially in his devil form from the neck down, and wielded the long, sharp blade of Force Edge in his hand.

"I didn't think you'd want to get involved," Sparda said, slowly pacing the top of the staircase, his eyes locked on Dante's, "but now that you are here, I suppose you'd want to prove your skill."

Dante stared back at him for a long moment as the reality crashed down on him. Any doubts he'd had that this was some kind of hangover was obliterated by the sheer power permeating from the man before him. It rolled through the smoke tainted air with a scorching heat all of its own, encompassing everything around them with raw pressure. It was a daunting, oppressive phenomena he remembered well from his early childhood.

He lowered his gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet the challenge his father posed, and pursed his lips hard. There was a tremor beneath his feet. He scowled. Dante had to face whack-jobs trying to follow in Sparda's footsteps nearly all his life; he'd fought them all and beaten them all, including his own brother. None had possessed the true power of Sparda. None had the face and the voice and the body standing before him now. None had ever taken the time to challenge Dante in a civilised manner, and none had ever given him the opportunity to opt out.

Dante took a slight step back and straightened to his full height, noting that he had at least a couple of inches on his father. His glare was met with a familiar half-smile from Sparda. Dante reached over and pulled the woman closer to him, and cocked his head to the side.

"What do you want with the lady?" Dante finally responded.

Sparda ceased his pacing and his smile dropped from his face. "Questions? Well," Sparda drawled, and gave a slight shake of his head. "That's a change from your impulsive nature. I'm surprised you haven't taken a shot at me yet."

Dante whipped Rebellion off his back and rested the tip on the floor between them when Sparda advanced a step forward. "Don't give me a reason to. Did you hurt her boy?"

"What?" The woman gasped beside him. Dante chanced a quick look at her, and felt his heart sink when she read his expression. Her hands flew to her chest and she backed away from him, fear swimming in the golden pits of her eyes as she repeated in an unstable voice, "_What?"_

"He does not belong to her," Sparda answered readily, assessing Rebellion for a moment before meeting Dante's gaze evenly. "Your stance is faulty."

Dante's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. "Really?" He growled back with narrowed his eyes. "You're going to tell me just how bad my posture is right now. _Really_?"

Sparda slowly lifted Rebellion's tip off the floor with the blade of Force Edge until Dante had no choice but to pull back and lift his sword over his shoulder.

"That posture betrays poor swordsmanship, Dante."

"That's the idea," Dante fired back.

Sparda let out a deep breath and slowly sauntered back toward the staircase. "Dante, Dante," he murmured, "I never could quite grasp your style."

"I strategise on the go," Dante returned icily.

"No, you improvise in the moment," Sparda countered and turned toward him when he reached the top step. "There is a vast difference, Dante."

The fire had started to climb up toward the second floor, bringing with it clouds of thick black smoke. Dante had to fight to keep from drawing it into his lungs. The woman wasn't doing so well either; he heard her half-coughing, half-choking on the air.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Dante asked angrily, cautiously closing the distance between him and his father.

Sparda's scowling features smoothed into a cool, heartless grin. Dante startled when the woman suddenly came flying past him, propelled by an invisible force. Sparda caught her by the hair and held her aside like a ragdoll. Tears were streaming down her face, and she offered no resistance to the rough handling.

"Let her go or I –" Dante streaked forward.

The tip of Force Edge greeting his throat caught him in his tracks.

"Will you fight me for her, Dante? You'll take her from me by no other means," Sparda said frostily, staring back at him with the fury of the Underworld in his gaze.

Dante's eyes darted from his face to the woman's terrified tears indecisively.

"Please... you don't know what's going on... stay away..." The woman gasped between sobs.

"Wise words," Sparda said and fixed Dante with a cool, indifferent look, "I would heed them well if I were you."

Dante lingered for a drawn out moment, considering his options. The challenge didn't waver from Sparda's gaze and he stood motionless, waiting for Dante's response. He could take him on – the need for justice was burning hotter through him right that moment than the fire crackling around them. He could easily sidestep the sword at his throat, trickster back when Sparda swings at him, and streak forward to unleash a barrage of hits with Rebellion while Sparda is captured in the momentum of his swinging sword. He could flip into the air and decorate him with a wave of bullets before Sparda recovers to counter it. It wouldn't kill him, but it'd give Dante the chance to snatch the woman out of harm's way and make a run for it.

Sparda's eyes flashed a warning at him, and Dante fought against the impulse to carry out his thoughts. Emotionally, he wanted to act on his instincts and fight for all he was worth. Logically, he knew he didn't stand a chance. This was the same man that had taught him the basics of warfare as a kid and drilled into him the single key to winning a fight.

Know your opponent.

Dante yielded to Sparda's threat and reluctantly moved away from the edge of the sword that had penetrated the soft skin beneath his chin. Sparda descended the stairs the same instant Dante backed off, and the fiery flames flared high from the ground floor to shield the figures from his view. The next second they were both gone and Dante was left alone in the burning house.

This time when he smashed the window, he had no trouble getting out of the house. He staggered down the street and blindly passed his car, heading toward his office, nauseated and overwhelmed with raw fury and frustration. He condemned himself every step of the way for being incapable of beating Sparda, even though he'd known it was an unimaginable feat either way. It was clever not to engage him in battle.  
Dante knew he would be no match for the impossible expertise and abilities of Sparda himself. He wouldn't be walking home right now if he'd tried to fight. He'd be dead. Good and well and thoroughly dead.

Though he was alive, he might as well have died on the inside. Dante knew what would meet him at the office. Dante had to shake himself and talk himself in going into the office when he reached the building.

He thought the boy would still be exactly where he'd left him, that he would go over to the phone and call...someone, anyone who would come to save him from crumbling into pieces... and that he would have his moment to weep for the life that had slipped through his fingers.

What he hadn't expected was to see his mirror image in black vest and trousers, half-kneeling, half-sitting on the blood stained floor beside the couch, cradling the limp and mutilated small body to his chest.

Dante couldn't move, couldn't breathe for what felt like an eternity. His brother was soundlessly weeping, his strong shoulders heaving and trembling as he hovered protectively over the boy. His own heart clenched painfully as the tears he'd been holding back were shed for him. It dwindled on him only then who the woman had meant she'd sent to him. It took him a long time before he could find his voice.

"She's gone," Dante said.

Vergil went still at his words. Dante swallowed hard. His brother lifted his head and stared back at him with bloodshot eyes. The blue irises were deeper and bluer and piercing and, Dante acknowledged, far more human than the pair that had addressed him in the flame engulfed house.

"She lied to me. She said Anthony would be here," Vergil said, and pressed the child tighter against his chest possessively, "she told me she'd be here."

"I couldn't stop him," Dante said.

"Did you not have the amulet with you?" Vergil responded.

"Yeah, I did," Dante said and lowered his gaze to the floor when Vergil carefully laid the child on the couch.

"Why did you not follow him?" Vergil asked.

"I'm going to assume that's a rhetorical question," Dante said, scratching the back of his head, and added in a quiet tone, "How did the kid get hold of the amulet?"

"I gave it to him for his eighth birthday," Vergil spoke slowly, rising to his feet. Dante looked up at the edge in his brother's voice.

Their eyes locked across the room.

"The combined amulet allows you access to the demon realm when a portal to it is opened," Vergil said in a voice writhing with ugliness, and he glared at Dante with wide, furious eyes, "I know you can't defeat him but why did you not follow him?"

Dante took a breath, and regretfully said, "He told me not to."

"You _fool_!" Vergil roared.

Dante had Rebellion in hand and was blocking Vergil's swipe before he had the chance to blink. He moved with his brother, deflecting every hit, not taking any of his own although the opportunities his distraught sibling presented were plenty. Dante guided Yamato's blade in a rounded movement until Vergil had no choice but to readjust his grip. Dante kicked the sword from his brother's hand in that moment and dropped his own sword loudly on the floor as he swiftly streaked forward, rounded Vergil and caught him in a safe lock hold from behind.

"What did you expect me to do, huh?" Dante growled angrily in his ear. "Follow him? Fight him? Kill him? Save her?"

"You could have tried!"

"Idiot," Dante retorted, exerting pressure on Vergil's back muscles until he collapsed to his knees. "I couldn't have taken him on even if I gave it my best try. You _know_ this."

"Release me," Vergil said, out of breath as he struggled in the hold. "I must go after them. I have to save her."

"I'll let you go on one condition," Dante said, beginning to struggle to keep the strength of his hold against his brother's violent tousling.

"I won't kill you," Vergil said.

"Uh," Dante said with a small smirk and a tilt of his head, "Yeah, not exactly what I was thinking, but that'll be good, too. I'll let you go but I'm coming with you."

"Come with me?" Vergil repeated.

"You stand a better chance against him with me to back you up," Dante said, and let go of his brother with a great, tired breath. "And it increases the likelihood that you'll come out of it alive."


End file.
